Now that this treasure, which had so long been the object of the abbe's
meditations, could insure the future happiness of him whom Faria really
loved as a son, it had doubled its value in his eyes, and every day he
expatiated on the amount, explaining to Dantes all the good which, with
thirteen or fourteen millions of francs, a man could do in these days to
his friends; and then Dantes' countenance became gloomy, for the oath of
vengeance he had taken recurred to his memory, and he reflected how much
ill, in these times, a man with thirteen or fourteen millions could do
to his enemies.
The abbe did not know the Island of Monte Cristo; but Dantes knew
it, and had often passed it, situated twenty-five miles from Pianosa,
between Corsica and the Island of Elba, and had once touched there. This
island was, always had been, and still is, completely deserted. It is a
rock of almost conical form, which looks as though it had been thrust
up by volcanic force from the depth to the surface of the ocean. Dantes
drew a plan of the island for Faria, and Faria gave Dantes advice as to
the means he should employ to recover the treasure. But Dantes was far
from being as enthusiastic and confident as the old man. It was past a
question now that Faria was not a lunatic, and the way in which he had
achieved the discovery, which had given rise to the suspicion of his
madness, increased Edmond's admiration of him; but at the same time
Dantes could not believe that the deposit, supposing it had ever
existed, still existed; and though he considered the treasure as by no
means chimerical, he yet believed it was no longer there.
However, as if fate resolved on depriving the prisoners of their last
chance, and making them understand that they were condemned to perpetual
imprisonment, a new misfortune befell them; the gallery on the sea
side, which had long been in ruins, was rebuilt. They had repaired it
completely, and stopped up with vast masses of stone the hole Dantes had
partly filled in. But for this precaution, which, it will be remembered,
the abbe had made to Edmond, the misfortune would have been still
greater, for their attempt to escape would have been detected, and they
would undoubtedly have been separated. Thus a new, a stronger, and more
inexorable barrier was interposed to cut off the realization of their
hopes.
"You see," said the young man, with an air of sorrowful resignation, to
Faria, "that God deems it right to take from me any claim to merit for
what you call my devotion to you. I have promised to remain forever with
you, and now I could not break my promise if I would. The treasure will
be no more mine than yours, and neither of us will quit this prison. But
my real treasure is not that, my dear friend, which awaits me beneath
the sombre rocks of Monte Cristo, it is your presence, our living
together five or six hours a day, in spite of our jailers; it is the
rays of intelligence you have elicited from my brain, the languages you
have implanted in my memory, and which have taken root there with all
their philological ramifications. These different sciences that you have
made so easy to me by the depth of the knowledge you possess of them,
and the clearness of the principles to which you have reduced them--this
is my treasure, my beloved friend, and with this you have made me rich
and happy. Believe me, and take comfort, this is better for me than tons
of gold and cases of diamonds, even were they not as problematical as
the clouds we see in the morning floating over the sea, which we take
for terra firma, and which evaporate and vanish as we draw near to
them. To have you as long as possible near me, to hear your eloquent
speech,--which embellishes my mind, strengthens my soul, and makes my
whole frame capable of great and terrible things, if I should ever be
free,--so fills my whole existence, that the despair to which I was just
on the point of yielding when I knew you, has no longer any hold over
me; and this--this is my fortune--not chimerical, but actual. I owe you
my real good, my present happiness; and all the sovereigns of the earth,
even Caesar Borgia himself, could not deprive me of this."
Thus, if not actually happy, yet the days these two unfortunates passed
together went quickly. Faria, who for so long a time had kept silence
as to the treasure, now perpetually talked of it. As he had prophesied
would be the case, he remained paralyzed in the right arm and the left
leg, and had given up all hope of ever enjoying it himself. But he was
continually thinking over some means of escape for his young companion,
and anticipating the pleasure he would enjoy. For fear the letter might
be some day lost or stolen, he compelled Dantes to learn it by heart;
and Dantes knew it from the first to the last word. Then he destroyed
the second portion, assured that if the first were seized, no one would
be able to discover its real meaning. Whole hours sometimes passed while
Faria was giving instructions to Dantes,--instructions which were to
serve him when he was at liberty. Then, once free, from the day and hour
and moment when he was so, he could have but one only thought, which
was, to gain Monte Cristo by some means, and remain there alone under
some pretext which would arouse no suspicions; and once there, to
endeavor to find the wonderful caverns, and search in the appointed
spot,--the appointed spot, be it remembered, being the farthest angle in
the second opening.
In the meanwhile the hours passed, if not rapidly, at least tolerably.
Faria, as we have said, without having recovered the use of his hand
and foot, had regained all the clearness of his understanding, and had
gradually, besides the moral instructions we have detailed, taught
his youthful companion the patient and sublime duty of a prisoner,
who learns to make something from nothing. They were thus perpetually
employed,--Faria, that he might not see himself grow old; Dantes, for
fear of recalling the almost extinct past which now only floated in his
memory like a distant light wandering in the night. So life went on for
them as it does for those who are not victims of misfortune and whose
activities glide along mechanically and tranquilly beneath the eye of
providence.
But beneath this superficial calm there were in the heart of the young
man, and perhaps in that of the old man, many repressed desires, many
stifled sighs, which found vent when Faria was left alone, and when
Edmond returned to his cell. One night Edmond awoke suddenly, believing
that he heard some one calling him. He opened his eyes upon utter
darkness. His name, or rather a plaintive voice which essayed to
pronounce his name, reached him. He sat up in bed and a cold sweat
broke out upon his brow. Undoubtedly the call came from Faria's dungeon.
"Alas," murmured Edmond; "can it be?"
He moved his bed, drew up the stone, rushed into the passage, and
reached the opposite extremity; the secret entrance was open. By the
light of the wretched and wavering lamp, of which we have spoken, Dantes
saw the old man, pale, but yet erect, clinging to the bedstead. His
features were writhing with those horrible symptoms which he already
knew, and which had so seriously alarmed him when he saw them for the
first time.
"Alas, my dear friend," said Faria in a resigned tone, "you understand,
do you not, and I need not attempt to explain to you?"
Edmond uttered a cry of agony, and, quite out of his senses, rushed
towards the door, exclaiming, "Help, help!" Faria had just sufficient
strength to restrain him.
"Silence," he said, "or you are lost. We must now only think of you, my
dear friend, and so act as to render your captivity supportable or your
flight possible. It would require years to do again what I have done
here, and the results would be instantly destroyed if our jailers
knew we had communicated with each other. Besides, be assured, my dear
Edmond, the dungeon I am about to leave will not long remain empty; some
other unfortunate being will soon take my place, and to him you will
appear like an angel of salvation. Perhaps he will be young, strong, and
enduring, like yourself, and will aid you in your escape, while I have
been but a hindrance. You will no longer have half a dead body tied
to you as a drag to all your movements. At length providence has done
something for you; he restores to you more than he takes away, and it
was time I should die."
Edmond could only clasp his hands and exclaim, "Oh, my friend, my
friend, speak not thus!" and then resuming all his presence of mind,
which had for a moment staggered under this blow, and his strength,
which had failed at the words of the old man, he said, "Oh, I have saved
you once, and I will save you a second time!" And raising the foot
of the bed, he drew out the phial, still a third filled with the red
liquor.
"See," he exclaimed, "there remains still some of the magic draught.
Quick, quick! tell me what I must do this time; are there any fresh
instructions? Speak, my friend; I listen."
"There is not a hope," replied Faria, shaking his head, "but no matter;
God wills it that man whom he has created, and in whose heart he has
so profoundly rooted the love of life, should do all in his power to
preserve that existence, which, however painful it may be, is yet always
so dear."
"Oh, yes, yes!" exclaimed Dantes; "and I tell you that I will save you
yet."
"Well, then, try. The cold gains upon me. I feel the blood flowing
towards my brain. These horrible chills, which make my teeth chatter
and seem to dislocate my bones, begin to pervade my whole frame; in five
minutes the malady will reach its height, and in a quarter of an hour
there will be nothing left of me but a corpse."
"Oh!" exclaimed Dantes, his heart wrung with anguish.
"Do as you did before, only do not wait so long, all the springs of
life are now exhausted in me, and death," he continued, looking at his
paralyzed arm and leg, "has but half its work to do. If, after having
made me swallow twelve drops instead of ten, you see that I do not
recover, then pour the rest down my throat. Now lift me on my bed, for I
can no longer support myself."
Edmond took the old man in his arms, and laid him on the bed.
"And now, my dear friend," said Faria, "sole consolation of my wretched
existence,--you whom heaven gave me somewhat late, but still gave me,
a priceless gift, and for which I am most grateful,--at the moment of
separating from you forever, I wish you all the happiness and all the
prosperity you so well deserve. My son, I bless thee!" The young man
cast himself on his knees, leaning his head against the old man's bed.
"Listen, now, to what I say in this my dying moment. The treasure of the
Spadas exists. God grants me the boon of vision unrestricted by time or
space. I see it in the depths of the inner cavern. My eyes pierce the
inmost recesses of the earth, and are dazzled at the sight of so much
riches. If you do escape, remember that the poor abbe, whom all the
world called mad, was not so. Hasten to Monte Cristo--avail yourself
of the fortune--for you have indeed suffered long enough." A violent
convulsion attacked the old man. Dantes raised his head and saw Faria's
eyes injected with blood. It seemed as if a flow of blood had ascended
from the chest to the head.
"Adieu, adieu!" murmured the old man, clasping Edmond's hand
convulsively--"adieu!"
"Oh, no,--no, not yet," he cried; "do not forsake me! Oh, succor him!
Help--help--help!"
"Hush--hush!" murmured the dying man, "that they may not separate us if
you save me!"
"You are right. Oh, yes, yes; be assured I shall save you! Besides,
although you suffer much, you do not seem to be in such agony as you
were before."
"Do not mistake. I suffer less because there is in me less strength to
endure. At your age we have faith in life; it is the privilege of
youth to believe and hope, but old men see death more clearly. Oh, 'tis
here--'tis here--'tis over--my sight is gone--my senses fail! Your hand,
Dantes! Adieu--adieu!" And raising himself by a final effort, in which
he summoned all his faculties, he said,--"Monte Cristo, forget not Monte
Cristo!" And he fell back on the bed. The crisis was terrible, and a
rigid form with twisted limbs, swollen eyelids, and lips flecked with
bloody foam, lay on the bed of torture, in place of the intellectual
being who so lately rested there.
Dantes took the lamp, placed it on a projecting stone above the bed,
whence its tremulous light fell with strange and fantastic ray on the
distorted countenance and motionless, stiffened body. With steady gaze
he awaited confidently the moment for administering the restorative.
When he believed that the right moment had arrived, he took the knife,
pried open the teeth, which offered less resistance than before, counted
one after the other twelve drops, and watched; the phial contained,
perhaps, twice as much more. He waited ten minutes, a quarter of an
hour, half an hour,--no change took place. Trembling, his hair erect,
his brow bathed with perspiration, he counted the seconds by the beating
of his heart. Then he thought it was time to make the last trial, and he
put the phial to the purple lips of Faria, and without having occasion
to force open his jaws, which had remained extended, he poured the whole
of the liquid down his throat.
The draught produced a galvanic effect, a violent trembling pervaded the
old man's limbs, his eyes opened until it was fearful to gaze upon them,
he heaved a sigh which resembled a shriek, and then his convulsed body
returned gradually to its former immobility, the eyes remaining open.
Half an hour, an hour, an hour and a half elapsed, and during this
period of anguish, Edmond leaned over his friend, his hand applied
to his heart, and felt the body gradually grow cold, and the heart's
pulsation become more and more deep and dull, until at length it
stopped; the last movement of the heart ceased, the face became livid,
the eyes remained open, but the eyeballs were glazed. It was six o'clock
in the morning, the dawn was just breaking, and its feeble ray came
into the dungeon, and paled the ineffectual light of the lamp. Strange
shadows passed over the countenance of the dead man, and at times gave
it the appearance of life. While the struggle between day and night
lasted, Dantes still doubted; but as soon as the daylight gained the
pre-eminence, he saw that he was alone with a corpse. Then an invincible
and extreme terror seized upon him, and he dared not again press the
hand that hung out of bed, he dared no longer to gaze on those fixed
and vacant eyes, which he tried many times to close, but in vain--they
opened again as soon as shut. He extinguished the lamp, carefully
concealed it, and then went away, closing as well as he could the
entrance to the secret passage by the large stone as he descended.
It was time, for the jailer was coming. On this occasion he began
his rounds at Dantes' cell, and on leaving him he went on to Faria's
dungeon, taking thither breakfast and some linen. Nothing betokened that
the man know anything of what had occurred. He went on his way.
Dantes was then seized with an indescribable desire to know what was
going on in the dungeon of his unfortunate friend. He therefore
returned by the subterraneous gallery, and arrived in time to hear the
exclamations of the turnkey, who called out for help. Other turnkeys
came, and then was heard the regular tramp of soldiers. Last of all came
the governor.
Edmond heard the creaking of the bed as they moved the corpse, heard the
voice of the governor, who asked them to throw water on the dead man's
face; and seeing that, in spite of this application, the prisoner did
not recover, they sent for the doctor. The governor then went out,
and words of pity fell on Dantes' listening ears, mingled with brutal
laughter.
"Well, well," said one, "the madman has gone to look after his treasure.
Good journey to him!"
"With all his millions, he will not have enough to pay for his shroud!"
said another.
"Oh," added a third voice, "the shrouds of the Chateau d'If are not
dear!"
"Perhaps," said one of the previous speakers, "as he was a churchman,
they may go to some expense in his behalf."
"They may give him the honors of the sack."
Edmond did not lose a word, but comprehended very little of what was
said. The voices soon ceased, and it seemed to him as if every one had
left the cell. Still he dared not to enter, as they might have left some
turnkey to watch the dead. He remained, therefore, mute and motionless,
hardly venturing to breathe. At the end of an hour, he heard a faint
noise, which increased. It was the governor who returned, followed by
the doctor and other attendants. There was a moment's silence,--it was
evident that the doctor was examining the dead body. The inquiries soon
commenced.
The doctor analyzed the symptoms of the malady to which the prisoner had
succumbed, and declared that he was dead. Questions and answers followed
in a nonchalant manner that made Dantes indignant, for he felt that all
the world should have for the poor abbe a love and respect equal to his
own.
"I am very sorry for what you tell me," said the governor, replying to
the assurance of the doctor, "that the old man is really dead; for he
was a quiet, inoffensive prisoner, happy in his folly, and required no
watching."
"Ah," added the turnkey, "there was no occasion for watching him: he
would have stayed here fifty years, I'll answer for it, without any
attempt to escape."
"Still," said the governor, "I believe it will be requisite,
notwithstanding your certainty, and not that I doubt your science, but
in discharge of my official duty, that we should be perfectly assured
that the prisoner is dead." There was a moment of complete silence,
during which Dantes, still listening, knew that the doctor was examining
the corpse a second time.
"You may make your mind easy," said the doctor; "he is dead. I will
answer for that."
"You know, sir," said the governor, persisting, "that we are not content
in such cases as this with such a simple examination. In spite of all
appearances, be so kind, therefore, as to finish your duty by fulfilling
the formalities described by law."
"Let the irons be heated," said the doctor; "but really it is a useless
precaution." This order to heat the irons made Dantes shudder. He heard
hasty steps, the creaking of a door, people going and coming, and some
minutes afterwards a turnkey entered, saying,--
"Here is the brazier, lighted." There was a moment's silence, and then
was heard the crackling of burning flesh, of which the peculiar
and nauseous smell penetrated even behind the wall where Dantes was
listening in horror. The perspiration poured forth upon the young man's
brow, and he felt as if he should faint.
"You see, sir, he is really dead," said the doctor; "this burn in the
heel is decisive. The poor fool is cured of his folly, and delivered
from his captivity."
"Wasn't his name Faria?" inquired one of the officers who accompanied
the governor.
"Yes, sir; and, as he said, it was an ancient name. He was, too, very
learned, and rational enough on all points which did not relate to his
treasure; but on that, indeed, he was intractable."
"It is the sort of malady which we call monomania," said the doctor.
"You had never anything to complain of?" said the governor to the jailer
who had charge of the abbe.
"Never, sir," replied the jailer, "never; on the contrary, he sometimes
amused me very much by telling me stories. One day, too, when my wife
was ill, he gave me a prescription which cured her."
"Ah, ah!" said the doctor, "I did not know that I had a rival; but I
hope, governor, that you will show him all proper respect."
"Yes, yes, make your mind easy, he shall be decently interred in the
newest sack we can find. Will that satisfy you?"
"Must this last formality take place in your presence, sir?" inquired a
turnkey.
"Certainly. But make haste--I cannot stay here all day." Other
footsteps, going and coming, were now heard, and a moment afterwards the
noise of rustling canvas reached Dantes' ears, the bed creaked, and the
heavy footfall of a man who lifts a weight sounded on the floor; then
the bed again creaked under the weight deposited upon it.
"This evening," said the governor.
"Will there be any mass?" asked one of the attendants.
"That is impossible," replied the governor. "The chaplain of the chateau
came to me yesterday to beg for leave of absence, in order to take a
trip to Hyeres for a week. I told him I would attend to the prisoners
in his absence. If the poor abbe had not been in such a hurry, he might
have had his requiem."
"Pooh, pooh;" said the doctor, with the impiety usual in persons of his
profession; "he is a churchman. God will respect his profession, and not
give the devil the wicked delight of sending him a priest." A shout of
laughter followed this brutal jest. Meanwhile the operation of putting
the body in the sack was going on.
"This evening," said the governor, when the task was ended.
"At what hour?" inquired a turnkey.
"Why, about ten or eleven o'clock."
"Shall we watch by the corpse?"
"Of what use would it be? Shut the dungeon as if he were alive--that
is all." Then the steps retreated, and the voices died away in the
distance; the noise of the door, with its creaking hinges and bolts
ceased, and a silence more sombre than that of solitude ensued,--the
silence of death, which was all-pervasive, and struck its icy chill to
the very soul of Dantes. Then he raised the flag-stone cautiously with
his head, and looked carefully around the chamber. It was empty, and
Dantes emerged from the tunnel.
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